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My back’s still against the locker, cold metal pressed to overheated skin, and my legs feel like they’re made of warm pudding and bad decisions. Great ones. The best ones.

Brock’s still inside me. Still breathing like a man who just survived a war and doesn’t want to talk about it. One hand rests on my hip, firm and grounding. The other brushes a damp strand of hair from my face.

He hasn’t moved to pull out yet.

I kind of hope he never does.

I feel stretched. Claimed. Ruined in the best way. Like someone took a puzzle that was mostly working and slammed in the last piece with so much force it cracked the whole table. And I want to say something witty. Something cocky. Something that reminds him I’m still in control, even though he just rearranged my spine.

But all that comes out is a content, obscene little whimper.

He huffs a quiet laugh, more breath than sound, and finally eases out of me with this slow, filthy drag that makes me shiver. It’s not romantic. It’s raw. Slick. Messy. And I fucking love it.

I slump forward against his chest, and instead of brushing me off or buckling up and backing away, he catches me with one big arm and just holds.

For a second, we stay like that.

Him warm and solid, me draped over him like a human sweat towel, both of us still panting, still tangled in whatever the hell just happened.

He reaches down, grabs my panties from the floor, and wipes me off. Just like that. No fuss. No hesitation. The man is cleaning his come off me like it’s just part of the ritual. Like this is what we do now.

And I swear to god, I nearly come again.

“You’re efficient,” I say, breathless.

“You’re a mess,” he replies. But his voice is softer now. Almost fond.

When he’s satisfied with his very manly, post-apocalyptic paper towel service, he shrugs back into his pants and gives me a look like I’m supposed to get dressed too. Which is hilarious.

I pull the shirt back on, still mostly naked underneath.

He watches me the whole time. Not leering. Just...watching. Like he’s still figuring me out. Like I’m still dangerous.

And then he says it. Quiet. Certain. “That wasn’t just sex.”

I blink, caught off guard. “No?”

“No,” he says.

And then he turns and leaves me there, wrecked, satisfied, sore in the best way, and smiling like a lunatic.

God, I love him.

Chapter Twenty-One

Dean

You ever try playing poker when the woman you’re all wildly in love with just got dragged off by your grumpiest bunker mate?

Yeah. Kills the vibe a little. None of us were feeling particularly like betting on clothes anymore.

We switched to pool instead.

Turns out Evan is a fucking shark. Cold, calculating, deadly as hell with a cue. And Wade? Cowboy shoots like the table owes him money. Trick shots. Bounce shots. I swear at one point he made the cue ball hop over mine just to prove he could.

Me? I’m more of a vibes player. My strategy is mostly pelvic-based and relies heavily on Maple being nearby and bendy.

And just when I’m lining up what I think might be a totally legal shot, Brock strolls back in.